


Fractured Fairy Tales

by amireal



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Fairy Tales, First Time, unusual narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-29
Updated: 2009-11-29
Packaged: 2017-10-03 23:44:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amireal/pseuds/amireal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Once upon a time, you could sit in a tall tower,</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fractured Fairy Tales

# Fractured Fairy Tales

  


## by Amireal 

 

**Title:** Fractured Fairy Tales

**Author:** Amireal

**Rating:** R

**Pairing:** McKay/Sheppard

**Spoilers:** THE HIVE!! This is Pre and Post Ep fic!

**Author's Notes:**  
My beta,[](http://chopchica.livejournal.com/profile?style=mine)[**chopchica**](http://chopchica.livejournal.com/?style=mine)   
Weee! Thank you! Despite the fact that you secretly wished for me to write this   
fic even as I refused. And by secretly wished I mean was all "WRITE ME POST-EP   
FIC NOW, BITCH!!" Curse you. And to

[  
](http://seperis.livejournal.com/profile?style=mine)[**seperis**](http://seperis.livejournal.com/?style=mine)   
who bitchslapped my commas into submission without even being asked to. You   
rock!

**Length:** 4,300ish words.

 

 

**Summary: ** _Once upon a time, you could sit in a tall tower,   
stare at the sky, sigh deeply, and wait for the Prince to call your name._

 

******

 

Once upon a time, you could sit in a tall tower, stare at the sky, sigh deeply,   
and wait for the Prince to call your name.

 

******

 

Rodney paces and paces and paces. He's dizzy and scared and shaky and he can't   
stop thinking about Sheppard's face all wrinkled and pasty, mouth open wide in a   
scream long dead.

 

The guards just smirk at him and continue to play their overly simplistic board   
game and really, if tweedle dee would just move his stupid white rock three   
spaces up he'd finally win one.

 

Rodney paces some more.

 

******

 

It's easier to let him come to you, to sleep in a glass box, silent and   
peaceful.

 

******

 

"Something is definitely wrong!" Rodney yells, his voice cracking.   
Wrongwrongwrongwrong. His palms itch and it's so hard to think even with the   
small dose they have him on.

 

Drug addiction manuals skitter across his brain. He can see the face of a   
hopeless undergrad too overtaken with the pressure or maybe just really stupid,   
pale and still as he disappears under a white sheet and is rolled away on a   
university gurney.

 

Tweedle dumb just reiterates what his stupid cohort says, and Rodney has to pull   
back a growl of frustration. He was never very good at waiting.

 

******

 

Modern fantasy changes the face of the story, feminism and the penchant for   
Hollywood to avoid anything too original reconstitutes the formula. Now the   
Princess is no longer content to wait peacefully and must struggle between what   
she knows she's supposed to do and what she knows will actually happen.

 

******

 

The large cabinet mocks Rodney in some silent and undefined way. Like if it   
could, it would stick its rough wooden tongue out and spit splinters at his   
face, possibly even develop strange elongated cartoon arms and large, oversized   
white gloved cartoon hands that will wave at him in an infantile manner at the   
same time.

 

His reflection looks a bit deranged, as if he's spent three days awake and high.   
Possibly because he has, and it's starting to make him just a little bit jumpy.   
It's an insane plan worthy of Colonel Sheppard, because it has little brains, no   
finesse, and a whole lot of danger to his life.

 

Oh god, Colonel Sheppard isn't back yet and the plan is going to hell and Rodney   
really, really wants to be back on Atlantis asleep in his bed, finally, finally   
still. His hands shake hard enough to brush annoyingly against his thighs as a   
painful reminder. He hasn't been still in days, and there's ants crawling under   
his skin because of it.

 

He looks at the cabinet again, swallowing roughly. Well, he supposes Colonel   
Sheppard is a role model to someone somewhere, why not to Rodney right now? The   
small vials of pink amber solution sit all in a row, a pretend gesture to the   
rigors of science.

 

Rodney stops a small, pathetic little laugh from escaping as his hand moves,   
drawn to the larger bottle like a magnet, his fingers feeling stiff and ungainly   
as they wrap around it. He can't decide if that's because of the drug already in   
his system or the adrenaline thrumming through his veins because he's about to   
do something monumentally stupid, with needles.

 

He's not a superhero, he's said as much before, and still he gets stuck in these   
stupid unmanageable situations where in order to win he has to risk life, limb   
and useable vein.

 

All the medical training he's ever had flashes too quickly behind his eyes.   
Mostly it's a couple of first aid courses and the field training he was forced   
to endure. Still, nothing prepares him for the spark of fear as he pierces his   
own skin with the barely clean needle and oh god, didn't these kids ever hear of   
infections? Rodney resists taking it out and pouring the dark bottle of alcohol   
over his skin. Instead he presses the plunger unsteadily, knowing that's far too   
dangerous in its own right, and the enzyme burns its way in, spreading an ever   
widening path of fire through him.

 

Almost immediately, his heart goes from stuttering fast to jack hammering inside   
his chest, quick enough for pain to sink in. It only makes him more afraid and   
the list of the things that can go wrong grows longer and longer in his head.   
The plunger finally stops moving and Rodney can't do anything more than pull   
faintly and let it roll out of his unresponsive hand.

 

Milliseconds or hours later, Rodney can't really tell anymore, he's too caught   
up in feeling strong and capable in a way he's never felt before. For once,   
Rodney McKay knows he can win the physical race. Show him to that arm wrestling   
championship in the dorms he used to avoid; he's ready and willing now. Pumped   
and sweating and capable of breaking his old slide rule in half, he's ready to   
save the day.

 

******

 

The Princess is stuck in the untenable position, where she can save herself and   
act and change and move on from what she is, forever reshaping the landscape of   
her archetype. Or she can sit safely in her ivory tower, and let the decisions   
be made for her.

 

Of course, the decision is obvious, when the Prince can barely comb his own   
hair, a girl's gotta get a little dirty if she wants to be swept off her feet.

 

 

******

 

Rodney wants to be Xena, all calm and collected, every move judicious and   
logical, the minimalist approach, every Karate chop in its place and he wants to   
look hot doing it. Of course, he ends up being Joxer on steroids and he's really   
not all that surprised.

 

He gets his own knocks on the head, the back, the shoulders, it all sort of   
washes off in a cartoon mallet sort of manner; it's the surprise at the force   
that hits him more than the pain that gives the tweedles their momentary edge.

 

 

Lots of BAMS! And POWS! And large comic book style words appear in ghostly form   
superimposed over the running movie in his eyes when parts of Rodney's body   
smash against parts of theirs. Small fractions of his brain still working in a   
logical progression make a resolution to at least think about approaching Teyla   
for some advice. Maybe even ask one of the marines, one who doesn't look like   
he's about to shoot Rodney when he's in his general vicinity, for some dirty   
tricks.

 

He thinks about all this after he's done kicking ass and the high from the   
incredibly insane and stupid plan actually working buzzes out of his system. He   
continues to think about it as searches through Ford's desk like a strung out   
computer junky looking for some new circuitry to devour. He gathers the weird   
animal skin holder in his shaking hand, the crystals clinking delicately, an odd   
counterpoint the violence of his new world. Rodney's newly acquired Tourettes   
isn't helping banish the sound, and he has to live with it tapping at his ear   
drums all the way to the DHD.

 

The control crystals dance before his eyes after it takes longer than it ever   
should have for an intelligent twelve year old to open the panel on the DHD, let   
alone Rodney. He keeps getting distracted by momentary pride over his physical   
triumph. The big stupid guards never saw it coming.

 

Oh wow, he's really feeling it now; if he'd waited maybe ten minutes he thinks   
the big stupid guards wouldn't have even gotten back up for long enough to land   
the few that they had on Rodney. He can't make the DHD focus enough to look at   
the whole picture. He has to lean forward and squint a section at a time and it   
takes two tries per crystal to make them settle into place. Finally, finally he   
can dial, but he's cold and hot and his hands don't always land where they're   
supposed to and the first time through he misses the point of origin completely   
and he has to wait for the whole thing to reset itself. And he keeps hearing   
footsteps behind him and seeing the two big dumb clichés sneaking up out of the   
corner of his eye.

 

Please work. Pleasework. Pleaseworkpleaseworkpleasework. Rodney listens to the   
sounds of the gate working the way he used to listen to his dialup modem   
connecting. He can tell a million things from how long it takes one click and   
buzz to lead into another. Finally, it all sounds like music, one of those   
perfect, perfect songs that used to play on the radio but he never let himself   
like because it was so mainstream and commercialized it made his head ache.

 

The gate shimmers to life, and Rodney for once doesn't think of that inherent   
Freudian symbolism in being so grateful to fall through a rippling wet circle.   
Instead, he's already moving onto what happens next; after all, if he can save   
himself, then everyone else is cake.

 

******

 

Of course, the changing of the infrastructure of the story means that the   
painful feats once reserved for the Prince, are now delegated to the new hero. A   
by product of the shifting of traditional gender roles leaves the rest of the   
characters confused and even unbelieving that these fantastical acts can be   
accomplished at all if the Prince isn't there.

 

Life in a realistic fairy kingdom is a real bitch.

 

******

 

Rodney has about three full seconds to enjoy his stillness before he has to move   
again. Even so, everything about the way he moves feels different, and he's   
pretty sure it isn't the perpetual hangover rumbling through him that's doing   
it. Oddly, this time feels nothing like coming off so many uppers he was afraid   
to ask Carson the actual end dosage. That Rodney remembers having a more   
familiar feel to it.

 

He basks in the ability to walk smoothly, to move his arms, or even keep them   
lightly by his sides, something he's never really done before. His gait slides   
him across Atlantis, and he feels a slow grace in his movements, or maybe it's   
just that he's still, so tired, and his entire body chemistry is still a little   
out of whack.

 

The whole trip on the Daedelus just feels so familiar, in a gut tightening sort   
of way, the helplessness and then the utter certainty of failure amidst what   
can't possibly be called anything other than a success. The twin explosions of   
the Wraith ship have a certain beauty about them. It goes beyond aesthetics and   
well into that sharp and satisfied feeling that they're somehow snubbing their   
noses at the Wraith every time one of those large, technological wonders that   
could easily take out all of earth not ten years earlier goes up in a large   
fiery cloud of 'nya nya nya nya'.

 

The news of Sheppard and Ronon and Teyla's successful return reaches the   
Daedelus seconds after they send their own version of events back to Atlantis.   
Immediately Rodney pulls together the two or three most likely scenarios and   
makes a small side bet with himself; if Sheppard's solution involved someone in   
a dress with long hair and a lack of penis, he gets to have anything he can   
pilfer from the bowels of the Daedelus after the next supply run.

 

Rodney is suddenly very tired. He checks his watch and finds himself thoroughly   
unsurprised that it's overdue for his next set of pills. Carson had shoved the   
bottle in his hand with enough force to make his currently weaker than average   
arm shake slightly. Now he understands why, because his entire body feels like   
it's just gone on a second bender but skipped the fun parts.

 

Two horse pills that make him pee neon yellow, a few more that do nice things   
like stop the aching of his muscles, and one last to stop the shaking and the   
spinning in his head. Finally Rodney is down for the count. Daedelus can take   
care of its own repairs; he's pretty sure when he gets back to Atlantis there's   
going to be lots of large and ugly messes to take care. He was gone for weeks,   
and while he doesn't actually blame the rest of the galaxy for the fact that   
they just can't think on Rodney's level, it's too painful to watch. Other people   
do things so clumsily and slowly, it's even worse to look back and be able to   
read the mistakes as clearly as a children's book.

 

******

 

The Prince, often times, when he re-enters the story, will not believe all that   
has transpired himself. In modern retellings, he doesn't ask what happened   
before until it affects what happens now.

 

The Prince, as an archetype character, isn't meant for having his role taken   
away; it leaves him without a foundation for his actions, and thus doesn't think   
about the parts of his job that he no longer has to fulfill. They are, at most,   
inconsequential to his own success.

 

The Princess is, of course, bitter about her own lack of recognition, or   
possibly just feeling really, really stupid.

 

******

 

Rodney doesn't expect Sheppard to come barging into his room in the middle of   
the night, possibly in the middle of his best chunk of sleep in over a year.   
Everything feels better now that he's had the jittery drugged up half sleep for   
comparison.

 

"Are you *insane*?"

 

He blinks into the lights that suddenly come up around them; Sheppard is   
overriding the systems with his brain again and it's really agitating.

 

"Possibly." Rodney grumbles, running a hand over his face. "Are you?"

 

Despite Sheppard's attempt at his usual on base attire, long sleeve shirt   
fashionably accessorized with his sidearm, he still looks more unslept than   
normal, looking oddly vulnerable without his jacket or vest. "Well, I apparently   
have this thing about clowns, which I choose to blame on the Wraith. That   
doesn't answer my question." He stalks towards Rodney with singular intention.   
"Do you know how much of that stuff you actually took?"

 

Oh, so someone spilled. Rodney supposes that's not too surprising, he saw the   
footage from the gateroom security feeds and is fairly sure bootlegged copies   
were probably a hot commodity before he even made it to the infirmary. A small   
bit of Rodney hopes that Sheppard actually *asked* how he managed to get back   
from the planet of the steroid clichés instead of needing to be told. "I was   
high, not stupid. Visually estimating mass and volume are the sorts of things I   
picked up as an undergrad."

 

"So then, insane it is." Sheppard stops shy of the foot of his bed, arms   
crossed, staring down at him heavily.

 

"Yes, insane." Rodney waves him away. "Can I finish sleeping and letting my body   
float back down to something resembling normal?" He's still really tired, but   
Carson had warned him that the amount of stress he'd put his body through had   
been enormous and that was on top of the week or so before his trip into   
purposeful junkie land. He punctuates everything with an uncontrolled yawn.

 

Sheppard doesn't move, he just stands there frowning, tapping his foot on the   
ground.

 

Rodney twitches violently, throwing himself backwards onto the bed. "Oh my god,   
what do you want from me?"

 

"I'm sorry," Sheppard grinds out.

 

Peeking up from under the arm flung over his face, Rodney squints. "Excuse me?"

 

"There's a good chance," Sheppard runs a restless hand through his hair, "that I   
may not have remembered that according to my intell you should have still been   
stuck on that planet."

 

"Excuse me?" Rodney asks again, because there's a whole lot of data coming from   
Sheppard and his brain feels too strained to really put it all together. "You're   
apologizing to me for what?"

 

Sheppard fiddles with the edges of his sleeve, eyes downcast. "It didn't occur   
to me to ask how you got back, or even when and then when Beckett seemed overly   
familiar with the specific sequence of events involved in Teyla and Ronon's   
detox, I asked a few questions."

 

"I'm so proud, you've moved onto interrogative statements," Rodney sighs. "You   
want a cookie?"

 

"I want to apologize!" Sheppard snaps. "You're part of my team, I should have   
thought about it sooner. I should have asked as soon as I stepped through the   
gate."

 

Something shivery and pleasant starts at Rodney's chest when Sheppard utters the   
words 'My Team', capital letters of importantness booming inside of his ears.   
"Well, it's the thought that counts." Rodney says trying to be comforting.

 

"Yeah well, the thought died a quick death when I found out you purposefully   
took enough to take down an elephant." Sheppard's arms go back to being crossed   
in front of his chest and Rodney thinks really hard about going to sleep with   
his eyes open. "So I ask once again, what are you, insane?"

 

"Once again I answer, possibly." Rodney gives up and pushes up onto his elbows,   
hoping the pretense of paying attention will actually jump start him into   
*actually* paying attention enough to follow Sheppard's usual brand of arm chair   
logic. "Anything else, or do you just want to be creepy and stand there and   
watch me sleep?"

 

Sheppard's angry posture immediately disappears in one long whoosh of air. "Asside   
from the completely lunatic way of going about it, you did good McKay."

 

Rodney thinks this is perhaps Sheppard's version of positive reinforcement.   
"Well, now you know how it feels. At least you weren't dragged along kicking and   
screaming." He stands because leaning on his elbows hurts more than it used to.   
Will he never outlive the consequences of being a drug addict?"

 

"Nice to know that in a crunch you can take care of yourself." Sheppard reaches   
out and squeezes Rodney's shoulder once, hard and fast, each digit burning into   
the thin shirt like a brand.

 

The room's lights are still too harsh on his eyes, which feel red rimmed and   
dry, and he blinks quickly, five or six times in succession, attempting to taunt   
some moisture back into them. He also takes time to get his breath back;   
Sheppard's hand has an unerring knack to steal of stealing it away with the most   
innocuous gestures. "Yes, as long as there's a nice large dose of   
methamphetamines or Wraith enzyme, I'm a self sufficient super genius."

 

Sheppard gives him a genuine smile and wraps his fingers around Rodney's arm   
this time, squeezing again. "Nah, I think you could save your own ass while   
sober, too."

 

Rodney swallows, because instantly it clarifies in his own head. The motivation   
that fed his need to escape wasn't fueled by his own urge to save himself. That   
alone is enough to tilt reality on its axis. It was all about Sheppard; every   
useless life endangering move was borne out of fear for another man's life.   
"Right," Rodney whispers, "all about me."

 

Weariness pervades every cell of his body, and Rodney just wants to lay back   
down again. "Now that we've established that I'll do anything to save my own   
life, a quality that I personally find attractive in another human being," he   
looks pointedly at Sheppard, "can I go back to sleep now and wallow in my own   
selfishness?"

 

Sheppard doesn't answer, he just stares at Rodney for long enough for it to move   
from intimate to creepy. That's when Rodney realizes that they've floated into   
each other's personal space, and the front of him feels the heat radiating from   
Sheppard while his back shivers with the loss of the covers from his bed.

 

"You were on the Daedelus." Sheppard announces like its news to Rodney as well.   
"You were on the Daedelus when she came to find us."

 

"Yes," Rodney nods, "I was there, it's not an unusual occurrence. I've even got   
a usual bunk assignment." He wants to shuffle backwards, away from John Sheppard   
genius magnet, but he can't, he's stuck, his bare feet warming the floor beneath   
him, his arm brushing against Sheppard's arm.

 

The conversation pauses meaningfully, and Rodney watches a half dozen emotions   
crawl across Sheppard's face. "Thank you," he says, fear settling somewhere   
between his lips and his nose, a hard press of lips that thins them out   
completely, pushing the blood away from the surface, leaving lines of white   
behind them. Sheppard's head tilts forward, bending further into Rodney's aura,   
an intrusion of heat caressing over his skin.

 

"I..." Rodney trails off, eyes locking on Sheppard's, swallowing hard. "You..."   
He sighs deeply and shrugs, fighting the gravitational pull that Sheppard seems   
to exude.

 

Something in Sheppard seems to crumble and he opens his mouth to speak, but he   
only manages to flap his jaw a bit and force out a single word. "I..." his voice   
breaks, cracking at the end of the short pronoun into oddly dissonant qualities   
that make Rodney stop and really look at Sheppard's face. His hand blindly   
reaches out to Rodney, tracing a slow path from his cheekbone, down his neck and   
shoulder and ending with their clammy hands touching, Sheppard's clamped solidly   
over the back of Rodney's.

 

In its wake, small little sparks of  heat and pleasure leave Rodney breathless.   
"Yeah, well," he rasps, "ditto." Sheppard has reduced Rodney stupid surfer talk   
and right at that moment, Rodney doesn't actually care. Okay he cares a little,   
but the 'oh wow, touching me' is taking up most of his active thought processes.

 

"Can we," Sheppard leans in, his entire side finally pressing completely into   
Rodney, "skip the rest of the conversation about how we pull incredibly stupid   
stunts for each other," he stops, dragging his eyes across Rodney, as if   
reassuring himself he's really there, standing on his own, "and be kissing   
already?" He presses their hands closer together, fingers pushing hard against   
Rodney's.

 

Rodney makes a surprised noise, eyes closing automatically, spreading his   
fingers wide and threading their hands together. "Oh god, yes."

 

They press together carefully, movements slow and deliberate. Rodney already   
aches to be closer, his lips tingle with anticipation and Sheppard's warm breath   
ghosts across his face making him shudder. The first touch is a compression of   
sensitive skin, slightly chapped lips come together, and it's perfect and   
breathless and possibly enough to make up for Rodney's probable three day   
hangover.

 

******

 

The post modern fairy tale hardly ever ends with a happy ending; instead the   
audience finds themselves introduced to the 'Happy Enough' ending. The Princess   
must live with her new-found freedom and all the consequences that come with it,   
and the Prince must find a new place that allows for a functional existence   
within the context of the world they inhabit.

 

The concept of something more, that the story never ends, just the chapter that   
the audience is aware of, leaves the story with a far more complex weaving than   
the original conception of the genre allowed for.

 

******

 

Soft fluttering kisses down Rodney's neck, down that tendon Rodney knows sticks   
out because he's seen in the mirror each morning. Lips perfect and soft and just   
a hint of wetness trace past his collar bone and into the shallow hollow in the   
center.

 

"Oh." Rodney gasps, John licks him quickly, one rapid and deadly swipe that   
leaves him breathless and shaking, and Rodney imagines John's tongue just   
sweeping through his body, touching everywhere.

 

"Rodney," John says into his skin, slow and dirty. His hands run up and down   
Rodney's arms, almost fondling.

 

This is some special, strange place Rodney's never been before. It's all slow   
and silk and smooth and quiet and Rodney's not quiet. He's loud and constant and   
scared and excited and everything all rolled into one. But John makes him quiet   
and muted even as everything inside him wants to burst.

 

He clings to John tightly, desperation in his movements, each kiss a silent plea   
to stay alive, to stop running and jumping and flying straight into danger no   
normal human should be able escape from.

 

They push and pull, Rodney pressing heavily into John, feeling every scrape of   
skin as they wind together tightly. They're a Gordian knot, tangled and weaved   
so tightly together Rodney looses track of where he ends and John begins. Legs   
shift and Rodney's aching cock finds itself a home in the sweat crease of John's   
leg and hip. John's cock is hot beside his, hips pushing upward to a desperate   
beat.

 

Long, pleasure-filled minutes later, Rodney comes so hard his fingers tingle all   
the way through John's sharp intake of breath and shuddery cling around Rodney's   
shoulders. In the quiet darkness of the room, Rodney learns about fear in a   
whole new way. The possibility of loss flicks at the edges of his brain,   
laughing, mocking him, and his new found post-coital relaxation. He didn't think   
he could ever have more to lose than his life.

 

Sheppard-- John, he reminds himself, holds him tightly, lips mouthing nonsense   
against Rodney's skin. He runs a hand down John's sweat soaked skin.

 

"Don't do that again." John whispers, voice strained.

 

"Make you come like a freight train?" Rodney asks, flustered that he actually   
doesn't understand what John is talking about.

 

"Almost die trying to save me." John whispers again, eyes looking up, still wide   
and dilated with endorphins running through him.

 

"You first," Rodney whispers back, suddenly less alone than he was three seconds   
earlier.

 

******

 

The Prince and Princess learn to live, that is the new moral to the story. Evil   
comes and goes, but it's really not about that. The shifting landscape, changes   
the characters, and once removed from their archetypal roles, they no longer   
stay round and smooth and resilient, but instead form a more imperfect union   
that holds their worlds together.

 

The End is really The Beginning of the rest of the story, because the lack of   
perfection implies a continued struggle.

 

******

 

"Rodney! Do you ever shut up?"

 

"Not when I'm right!"

 

******

 

THE BEGINNING

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